


Parallel

by FoxInBox_aka_FIB



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:03:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxInBox_aka_FIB/pseuds/FoxInBox_aka_FIB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows from the first moment that she is different. That she is dangerous. <br/>That's exactly why he's drawn to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Encounter

He meets her in a bar a few towns over. She's startlingly beautiful, yet easy to overlook; she blends perfectly into the background unless she wants to be seen. He knows what that means, and it piques his curiosity.

In the dimness of the establishment, he catches her eye. She meets his gaze unflinchingly, her icy blue eyes hard and wary. As the shadows play across her features, he can't help but think she looks inhumanly dangerous.

And, also, incredibly sad.

He saunters up to her, trying his best flirty smile. She appraises him coolly, her gaze moving slowly over his body. To any casual onlooker, it might just seem like a precursory "to screw or not to screw" assessment. Stiles sees it for what it is- an assessment of the threat he might pose: of what he knows or is or has done. He just smiles back, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. He's good at that. Practice makes perfect, after all. Finally, she seems to make her decision. With a flip of her long blonde hair and a dainty crossing of her even longer legs, she motions towards the bar stool beside her. He was planning on taking the seat, whether he had earned her initial approval or not, but the invitation is exciting all the same. He scrambles into the seat, nearly knocking them both to the ground in the process.

"Hi!" He grins eagerly, and she purses her lips like she's wondering if she made the wrong choice. She repeats the greeting, eyes locked onto his own, searching. He knows that she will find no real answers within their depths, but he appreciates the effort. "My name is Stiles Stilinski."

She nods, glancing down into her glass. With an easy flick of her wrist, she swirls the amber liquid inside before downing it all without so much as a wince. "Rachel." she returns, eyes still locked on her cup. Stiles stares at the glass as well, and he can't help but note just how heavy it looks. She holds it like a weapon, out of place in her delicately manicured hand, but deadly just the same. He swallows, and her eyes move to track the bobbing of his adams apple.

"What, no last name?" he prompts playfully, trying to keep the mood light even as he attempts to get his answers. "Are you in Witness Protection or just a fugitive on the run? After all, your beauty's got to be criminal!"

She glares, but there's a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "That's the lamest pickup line I think I've ever heard." she states before turning to call the bartender over for a refill. "And trust me, I've heard a few."

"What can I say?" he shrugs, grinning broadly. "Not everyone has the charm of a..." he trails off, not certain where his brain had been leading him. She doesn't comment, just sips her drink and watches the bar's patrons. Stiles frowns before turning to order a drink of his own. (He's not surprised when he's carded. He still looks young, even though one would think he'd be covered in wrinkles and grey hairs from all the werewolf shenanigans he had to deal with everyday.)Rachel watches him from her peripheral, smirking. He frowns at her and takes a swig of his own drink. She laughs out loud at the face he pulls, and even though it's at his expense, Stiles would be lying if he said that that laugh, as brittle and unnatural as it was, didn't boost his confidence about 75 percent. He turns to her, grinning.  
"So, Rachel, where are you from?"

"Just a small town, here in Cali." she responds, licking her lips. "I doubt you'd know it's name."

"I'm not so sure about that!" Stiles counters. "I've traveled enough that I think I know every backwater, two-buildings-and-a-gas-station town in the country." He makes a face, trying for humor. The words came out just a little too bitter, though; Just a little too worn. That happens sometimes. He tries to continue on, like it never happened, to direct her attention elsewhere so as not to spoil this chance. She doesn't let him, locking on to those words and that tone, eyes on him like he's suddenly far more interesting than before.

"So you travel a lot, then?" she murmurs, leaning in. He tries to keep his eyes above her chest, locked on her nose so it seems like he's looking at her eyes instead. He sees her lips curl into a predatory smile. "What are you running from, Stiles?" he averts his gaze, and hey, those ceiling tiles are actually very clean. Who would've guessed? She reaches out a hand and rests it on his thigh. "Or are you running for someone, perhaps?" she continues, and suddenly he wants to retaliate in some way, so he leans forward until they are just millimeters away, their breaths mingling, heavy with alcohol between them.

"I'm running from darkness." he whispers. "The darkness around my heart." the words are bitter, but strangely familiar upon his tongue. She blinks those ice-blue eyes of hers, seeming a little taken aback. Then the walls are back up and Rachel is smirking, cocky and strong and more than a little dangerous. But Stiles knows how to be dangerous, too. He returns her smirk, and before his opponent can continue, he counters with, "And how about you, oh Warrior Princess? What kind of darkness awaits you when you stop running?"

He sees her falter, watches her eyes darken and her lips part. For a second, he almost feels bad.


	2. Pleasantries

"I could kill you, you know." Rachel says casually. They're lounging on the hood of her car, watching the sun rise.

"I figured as much." Stiles replies, unperturbed.

"You don't seem bothered by that. How many times has someone threatened to kill you?"

"More than I care to recall. It's usually coming from friends. I got my fair share from people who actually meant it, though."

Rachel nods, eyes shining. Stiles wonders if it's from the sun or if the talk of death threats just excites her. He comes to the conclusion that it's mostly the second option. He should probably feel a little worried by that fact, but really, he'd accepted that most of the women in his life had mildly psychotic tendencies a long time ago. Rachel, at least, is open about those tendencies. He smiles at her, and she returns the expression. He knows she doesn't feel happy, but she's good at pretending. Probably better than Stiles himself.

"How often did you have to lie to your parents when you were a kid?" he wonders aloud. She shifts to lay on her side, focusing on him instead of the medley of colors the sky had become. She stares at him like he's something shiny and new for her to play with.

"What makes you think I lied to my parents?"

"Because I lied enough to recognize the people who had to, also."

She hums thoughtfully, head tilting. A strand of hair falls across her cheek and he wonders idly if she would break his fingers if he brushed it back behind her ears. He thinks about how he always reveals more of himself to her without any guarantee that he would get an answer in return and about how he should maybe be more careful with how readily he answers his own questions.

"My life was a complete lie for about three years." she finally says, smiling idly. "A lie at home, and at school, and on the streets, and in the mall. Sometimes, I think even my body was a lie for a while. A lie in every aspect that had been the truth before."

Stiles nods, not quite understanding exactly what she means, but knowing enough.

"Do you know what it's like to fight a war?" she asks the sky, eyes trained on a bird high above them. "Not a full out, guns blazing kind. The type of war that you have to keep a secret from the world. The kind that you lose limbs and watch people die and it leaves you wanting to curl into a ball and sob and never face the world again. But instead you pull yourself back together and go home and finish your homework and kiss your mom on the cheek and assure her that everything's fine."

Again, he nods. "Yeah, but it's like, how are you supposed to give a damn about the value of x when you just faced down people who wanted you and your friends dead? And what are you supposed to tell your dad when you wake him up with your screams when the nightmares come?"  
Rachel closes her eyes, squeezing them tight enough that lines form around her eyes and brow, aging her. She still looks beautiful. He keeps his thoughts to himself.

"How many of there were you?"

"It depends on the battle. People changed, switched sides, died, came back to life. The usual. It really just started with two- my best friend and me- and our numbers sort of grew from there. Of course, some of the people were murderous backstabbers, so they don't really count in the end." She chuckles darkly, and then answers his question before he can ask it.

"There were six of us. There were more late in the war, but they died quickly. In the end, only the ones who survived really count, right?"

"Maybe. I'll let you know if I figure out the answer to that one."

She nods like that's a wise response.


	3. Reminders

Scott is wary of Rachel. He pulls Stiles aside and recites warnings in a hiss about how she smells wrong and how he can feel the darkness around her, voice cracking occasionally. Stile just smiles and assures Scott that he already knows how dangerous she is, even if he doesn't know all the details. It's kind of an agreement between them, after all. Neither demands immediate answers from the other, but both are free to ask as many questions as they want.

Rachel is in the kitchen, talking easily with Isaac and Allison. Scott and Stiles enter, and all three turn to smile at the pair. Rachel beckons Stiles to her side, and he sits comfortably on the edge of the table. Scott situates himself atop the countertop and Stiles tells him he needs to invest in more kitchen chairs.

The tension eases away as the group talks into the night. Rachel takes it all in with something akin to hunger. Stiles can't help but notice just how sad her eyes are, despite how her lips curve into what could almost pass as a real smile. She's had lots of practice lying, after all. He's just good at reading her.

Stiles also notices how her eyes linger on Isaac, how she digs her fingernails into the fabric of her jeans. He wonders if she'll have crescent-shaped marks cut into her thighs by the end of the night. He thinks it would be almost a shame if she did. He rests a hand upon her shoulder. For a second, it seems like she will shrug him off. She doesn't, and his hand stays comfortably where it is until she and Allison begin talking battle tactics and escape strategies and Rachel gets a little too enthusiastic for simple words, and she begins to throw her arms into the air for emphasis. Allison does the same, mirroring her. Isaac smirks like he's amused, and Scott smiles like it's cute. Stiles wonders how long it will take for the two girls to decide that demonstrations are in order. He wants to be out of here before it comes to that.


	4. Truth

"Do you think that you made a difference, in the end?" she asks him one night as they're lying side by side on the cool grass. She doesn't like being cooped up in hotel rooms. In fact, she really doesn't enjoy the indoors at all. He wonders why.

Stiles ponders her question for a long time. She doesn't say anything more, patiently waiting for his answer. "I'm not sure if I really mattered or not, in the end." he finally says, the words brutally honest and something he'd never be able to convey to the pack. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I did a shit ton. More than I'll ever get credit for and more than I would ever want credit for. But I don't know if the things I did really did anything in the long run, you know?"

She nods, and a breeze blows her pale hair into his face. The grass rustles and a few leaves begin a lazy descent from their treetop homes. Rachel watches the grass thoughtfully, and Stiles wonders what she is remembering.


	5. Mystery

Sometimes, Rachel disappears.

The first few times, Stiles worried. He paced the apartment and called all his friends, asking if they had seen her. It occurs to him, as he's searching frantically through her stuff to see if she had left some kind of a clue, that he has never heard her mention anyone. No family, no friends, no one to call in case of an emergency or to tell them good news. He thinks it's sad. She emerges a few days later, shaking and dirty, from the woods. Stiles is initially reminded of years ago, when another girl he loved had appeared in a similar fashion. However, where Lydia was afraid and confused, Rachel looked exhilarated. He says nothing, just pulls her to him, trying to warm her up. She pushes Stiles away and goes home without him.

An hour later, she emerges from the shower, wonderfully clean and warm and wrapped in fuzzy towels. Stiles is waiting for her with dinner. Rachel smiles, soft and almost vulnerable. It only lasts a second before her mask slides back into place, but it reminds Stiles why he puts up with her.


	6. Heart

It's sometime after midnight, and Stiles hates everything. He and Rachel had gotten into a fight about BIRDS, of all things. And guess who ended up kicked out until she cooled down. Well, maybe not kicked out. He'd actually seen that wild, dangerous glint she sometimes got in her eyes. It was cool when it wasn't directed at him. When it was, though, he figured it was better to be far, far away.

He goes to Derek's loft. The man opens the door, sees who it is, and closes it again. For the next ten minutes, Stiles bangs his fist against the wood, yelling profanities. When the door swung suddenly inwards, Stiles nearly fell forwards, right into Derek. He managed to steady himself, grinning sheepishly up at the older man. "Yo Derek. What's up?"

The werewolf glared down at him, eyebrow raised. "What do you want, Stiles?"

"Can I crash here for a little bit?" and he pushes inside without waiting for any kind of an answer. Derek glares at him, nose crinkled. Stiles stares back, unphased, waiting for the inevitable interrogation or question. The silence stretches on until Stiles can't handle it, foot tapping an unsteady cadence against the hardwood floor. Finally he bursts out, arms flailing, "What's with the face, dude?! C'mon!"

Derek takes a step back to avoid being hit, sneezing as the air is wafted into his face. "You smell...wrong." he finally says, eyes moving slowly and suspiciously over Stiles's body.

Stiles grins, looking sheepish. "Yeah, well, that might tie in to why I'm here." Derek waits silently for an explanation. Stiles rubs at the back of his neck, making a face. "You see, I've been living with this girl -Don't make that face, it's the truth!- and she and I got into a fight and I ended up getting kicked out of the apartment."  


Derek stares at him for a long time, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Finally, he turns with a dramatic sigh and motions Stiles further into his lair. Whooping, the younger man rushes in and heads straight for the room with the television set. He digs through the movies before settling on one and putting it in. Derek watches him with a vaguely amused expression that also conveys the fact that he'd holding back the urge to rip out Stiles's tongue. Lounging on the loveseat, Stiles waves the werewolf over to sit with him and enjoy a nice, wholesome movie.

They've just finished the last of the Star Wars movies (turns out Derek hasn't seen them either. Stiles can only guess at how it is that werewolves don't seem to have any taste in quality entertainment.) when Rachel sends Stiles a text. It simply reads, 'Come home whenever.'


	7. Casualty

"How old were you when you saw your first dead body?" Rachel asks one day as they're doing the laundry.

"Are we talking natural or unnatural death?" he responds casually, thinking of his mom laid out in her casket.

"Unnatural." she answers, examining a pair of his underwear for tears she swears she sees.

"Scott and I found a body, cut in half, in the woods. We were 16. She was Derek's sister."

"I see. That must have been hard." the words fall flat, but there's genuine emotion in her eyes.

"Yeah. We ended up getting him thrown in jail for killing her. He didn't, but we thought we had all the evidence to the contrary."

"Did you ever find out who did?"

"Dear old Uncle Peter. I don't think you've met him yet. I hope you never do, actually. He's a fucking psychopath."  
She nods, humming as she folds one of her leotards. He'd asked her once why she keeps so many of them around when she never wears them. She hasn't answered yet.

They work in silence for a while, sunlight filtering in through the open window. A hawk cries outside and Rachel glances up from her work, eyes full of something like desire as she searches the sky outside their dinky apartment building.

"Did you know that thermals are pretty much the best way for a bird to fly?"  
He nods, and she smiles at him like he's something special.


	8. Secret

"I've killed before." she murmurs one night.

He had woken from a nightmare to find her in his room. He insists that he did not "shriek like a little girl" even though he smiles at her scathing, playful words. She climbs into bed without any kind of invitation, pressing cold feet against his bare legs. When she speaks, her voice is quiet. Very nearly reverent. It makes him want to sit up and really listen. But her arms are wound around his waist, her body trembling just a little bit. He waits for her to continue, knowing that prompting her when she's in a mood like this is useless.

Finally, just as he's starting to drift back off, she speaks, lips brushing against the nape of his neck. "The first one was when I was barely thirteen."  


He tenses, stomach roiling at the thought. So young...  


"I didn't think of them as people, as human, until later. Even then, I ignored it. I kept killing. I liked it." her breath is warm against his neck, but her words leave him feeling cold. She stops talking, and he can feel the pounding of her heart against his back. His thumb brushes over her knuckles and she grasps at it, fingers intertwining with his own.

Rachel sucks in shuddering breaths and Stiles doesn't comment on the tears that run in rivulets across the dip of his shoulder blades. They lay in silence until one or both fall asleep. When he awakens the next morning, he is alone.


	9. Pasttimes

"I played lacrosse in high school." he informs her one night as they're cooking dinner. She glances up from where she's preparing the meat, cutting it up into tiny pieces to be thrown into the pot. Stiles admires the way she handles the knife.

"Were you any good?" she challenges playfully, the hint of a grin to her features. Stiles laughs, shaking his head.

"Not really. Too many other good players on the team for me to ever really get the chance or have the reason to actually even try. Scott and Isaac were both star players, though. It was pretty cool to watch them. The other schools figured our team was on steroids or some shit. I lost count of how many times we had to go through drug tests!" He laughs, and she joins in. Soon they quiet, and he continues. "I scored the final shot once, though. That was awesome. Got MVP of the game and everything."

Rachel glances at him, head tilted to the side as if she's considering something. She looks back down at the raw meat, slicing a few more pieces before voicing her thoughts. "You don't look like you consider that a particularly fond memory." Stiles looks at her, mouth open in a small 'o' of surprise. Sometimes he finds himself forgetting just how perceptive Rachel can be to things like that. He offers a quiet, almost apologetic sort of laugh. She glances at him, eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, uh, well right after the game I was sort of kidnapped and beaten before being released as a, uh, warning to my friends, I guess. It's one of those cases where the bad memories negate the good ones."

She brushes her hair out of her face and frowns. Setting the knife down, she turns to face him, leaning against the counter as she searches his eyes. Stiles isn't certain of what she might be looking for, but he holds still and lets her search all the same. Eventually, she brings a finger to his face, tracing a faint scar. She leans in, breathing, "Was it here?" Warm air ghosts over his ear, making him shiver. He swallows and gives a slow nod. She's quiet for a long time, eyes tracing slowly across his features. Then, she's back to cutting the meat as though nothing had happened. He notes that she wields the knife a little more like a weapon now, the cuts more precise, like she's letting her frustrations out on the dead cow. He smiles and turns back to preparing his own food.

"How about you? Did you ever play any sports?"

She huffs, rolling her eyes. "I did gymnastics when I was younger. Lots of...hand-to-hand combat later on. Sort of, anyways."

"Were you any good?"

She gives him a dirty look, but at the sight of his goofy smile she can't seem to keep a straight face. "I was too tall to ever really go anywhere in gymnastics." Rachel admits, gathering the neatly sliced beef and dropping it into the frying pan. Stiles does the same with the vegetables. "I was pretty good with the fighting thing, though."

"Oh really? How good?" He pokes her side, and she flinches away. Then she offers him a dangerous smile and he feels his blood run cold. She licks her lips, and his eyes are drawn there immediately. That makes the smile widen.

"I beat someone to death once, using nothing but my own severed arm." she says, her voice low. She goes to stir the food before it burns, laughing at his expression. He doesn't dare ask whether she's being serious or not.


	10. Reveal

The pack meets up twice a month to go over plans, watch movies, discuss everyday happenings, and occasionally (always) have cuddlefests. Derek grumbles about that fact almost every time, but everyone knows he enjoys the contact just as much as the rest of them.

The first time Rachel tags along, they keep everything relaxed and casual, but undeniably normal-human-get-together-esque. Which, of course, meant no shifting, no Serious Business discussions, and no puppy piles. It was an alright night, with movies and laughter, but it was not the kind of night the pack was used to. Isaac later mentioned that he had felt like he'd been walking on eggshells the whole time. It was about that time that Stiles figured he should probably let Rachel know that there were some things that weren't quite normal about his friends.

Much to his chagrin, the blonde woman had thrown her head back and laughed at his oh-so-serious announcement. He waited until she was done, hands on his hips and a frown firmly in place even though her laughter made his stomach do flip flops and his heart flutter in his chest. As she flipped her hair over her shoulder, grinning widely at him, he managed to get out through gritted teeth, "Want to tell me what's so funny?"

She rolls her eyes. "Stiles, did you really think I hadn't already figured that out?"

"Okay, yeah, I get that you think we're all weird but this is more than that! Like, uh, most of us aren't totally human. I mean, I think Allison and I are really the only ones that are totally normal. And even then, she's got some crazy skills. So maybe I'm actually the only normal one." His eyes widen comically as Rachel arches an eyebrow, her mouth opening to say something or maybe, he thinks, to start yelling. "But please don't freak out, ok? I mean, everyone is pretty normal where it counts, even if Scott has that weird hair thing and Derek is supernaturally moody and possibly a sociopath. I'm still not sure. And don't even get me started on Peter, God damn that man is nuts. I mean- Shit. This is harder than I thought it would be." He fidgets, hands fluttering helplessly as he plows on at a breathless pace.

Rising from her seat, Rachel takes his hand, and he freezes. His eyes are wide, something resembling fear hiding within their depths. "Like I said, I figured that your friends weren't totally human almost the moment I met them. It's alright. As long as none of them are trying to take over the world, it doesn't bother me." 

Her voice is quiet and soothing, although it sounds strained. He squints at her face, then groans. 

"Don't tell me. You're not human, right? Here I was thinking you'd just been thrown into a shitty situation, like I had. What are you, then?" The words are tumbling from his lips at a breakneck speed, leaving him breathless. He thinks briefly that he should be better at handling revelations like this, but quickly shoves the thought aside. Screw that. He's going to be stupid if he wants to be, and so he continues talking. "Succubus? Angel? You're not a banshee, are you? Or maybe a vampire. You're inhumanly pretty. Shit. I should have known."

Rachel is laughing again, shaking her head. "Nothing like that, no. I'm mostly human." Stiles waits for her to continue, but the clarification he is hoping for never comes. He sighs and lets it go. She'll probably tell him some day. 

"So are you going to fill me in on what, exactly, your friends are?" 

"Werewolves." He deadpans, watching her face carefully. "And Lydia is a banshee."

She looks surprised. "I thought they were aliens."

"Aliens don't exist." Stiles scoffs, on the verge of laughter. Rachel smirks and his mouth goes dry. "Do they?"


	11. Adumbration

Rachel is actually very calm, all things considered.

Stiles admires that about her. Even though they're sitting back to back, duct tape binding their limbs, she hasn't broken free yet and killed anyone. He's actually very proud of her, although the breaking free thing would be handy. He would tell her as much, if it weren't for the tape covering his mouth.

They've been sitting unsupervised (and really, if they had managed to escape by this point Stiles would have been laughing about precocious villains, but they haven't so he doesn't think he has any room to speak) in the dank, dark room for about an hour before Rachel speaks.

"Hey, Stiles?" He grunts, and would probably be annoyed that they hadn't bothered to tape her mouth shut as well, if not for the crude and frankly unimaginative reasons they had detailed to them for leaving her lips free.

"I'm going to do something, and you have to promise me you won't look."

For a split second, he considers using one of the many sarcastic noises he keeps in his arsenal for situations like these. There is something in her voice that stops him, though. It is not uncertainty or fear; instead, her voice is laced with resignation and the steel that assures him that she will do whatever she is planning no matter what, but it would be really freakin nice if he's just do as he's told for once. So he stays quiet, tipping his head back slightly so she can feel his nod. She nod back, and then he nearly loses his balance as his back rest is suddenly missing. He rights himself, and listens to the sound of Rachel scooting away from him, so they are no longer in contact. He quickly shuts his eyes so that curiosity will not get the better of him just yet.

Everything is silent for a long moment, aside from Rachel's steady breathing and the sound of his own blood rushing in his head. Then the horrible crunching, sloshing, horror movie noises start. His head snaps up, but he squeezes his eyes shut, refuses to open them until the beautiful blonde woman who is apparently going through some monstrous transformation not three feet from him says that he can. He's lived with and around werewolves long enough that the idea and sight of a human shifting into something _other_ doesn't bother him anymore. In fact, he'd come close to writing essays on it in college.

But whatever it is that is happening behind him is nothing like those changes.

He takes deep breaths to stop himself from losing his lunch into his taped-shut mouth. He tries to focus on anything other than the sickening noises of whatever is happening behind him. He tries to remember whether they had turned the stove off before being snatched and whether the lettuce they had left on the counter would have wilted by now. The sloshing and creaking finally give way to a quiet rustle and the goosebump-raising sound of sharp claws of some kind or another being dragged across a concrete floor.

There is a long moment of silence, although he can practically sense movement as Rachel stretches and takes her time in whatever form she's taken. He wonders how it is that this is the first time he's finding out about this.

He misses that eerie silence as soon as the horror movie noises start up again.

Her hands are rough on his as she tugs at his bindings, and her voice is sweet in his ear as she mutters, "You can open your eyes, stupid."

He doesn't want to, afraid to see what she has become. But he's sure he's seen worse. With a deep breath, his eyes open and he turns his head and is greeted by...a familiar blonde woman. If it weren't taped shut, his mouth would've been hanging open as he stares, somehow more surprised than he'd be if she were a twisted monster. She meets his eye with her own ice blue ones, and arches one perfect eyebrow.

He wants to ask her, but she hasn't removed the gag and his hands aren't unbound yet.

There is one final yank, and the duct tape is gone, taking a lot of the hair from his arms with it. He grunts, tears pricking at his eyeballs. Rachel rolls her eyes and mutters something about how he shouldn't be such a big baby. He glares, but quickly reaches up to work on pulling the duct tape from his face (praying he can do it without tearing his lips off) while his companion sets to work on his feet. He finally gets a good look at her, and it is still not what he is expecting to see.

She's flawless, and really he should be used to this by now. Not a single hair is out of place and the wounds that he was pretty certain should be there (because if there's one thing that their captors weren't, it's gentle) are definitely not there. And he knows this, because she's in nothing but her underclothes, a pair of tight shorts and sports bra and a piece of displaced duct tape hanging from one arm. He frowns, and wriggles enough to glance behind and sees her regular clothes lying abandoned on the ground.

When he turns again, she is looking up at him. There is none of the amusement or chagrin that he's become so used to. Her face is almost blank, and her eyes are too hard. He swallows around the lump in his throat and pushes to his feet, hand offered immediately to Rachel. She accepts it this time and pulls herself up. She strides around him, perfect hair swishing in time to each graceful, long legged step, and scoops up her clothes without pausing to don them. Stiles stares after her for a long second, newly freed jaw hanging uselessly open.

She's already disappeared into the gloom of the poorly lit room by the time he gathers himself and runs after her.

Later, their captors will return to find the room empty, besides the leftover bindings and a few brown feathers.


	12. Specters

It's only after she's silent that Stiles realizes that Rachel was speaking in the first place. He glances up with an unintelligent "Huh?" and is expecting a glare or a roll of her eyes. 

Instead, she's silent, mouth twisted and eyes wide. She looks like she's seen a ghost, but isn't sure yet whether that's a good or a bad thing. Stiles follows her line of sight to the television, where some woman with a fancy title and a name he doesn't catch is talking about something that Stiles really doesn't care about. Apparently Rachel finds it interesting, though.

"Do you know her?" He asks after a long moment, recognizing something like familiarity in her gaze. Rachel doesn't respond. He waits a while longer, listening to the woman talk along the lines of "We should all get along and this is an idea about how that should happen." 

It's nothing he hasn't heard before, but he has to admit that it feels more sincere coming from her.

"Look at her." Rachel murmurs, as if in a trance. And so her does. He's not really sure what he's looking for, though. The woman is dark skinned and plump, with short hair. She's pretty enough, he supposes. She seems totally average, though. He wonders (with no small amount of alarm) if Rachel sees something that he can't. 

He voices his concerns, and Rachel shakes her head. A small smile spreads over her features. It seems sad. 

"Her outfit." the woman clarifies, and Stiles takes note of the pantsuit that the nameless speaker is sporting. Stiles still doesn't understand, and so he just waits for the clarification he is hoping will be forthcoming. 

"She's actually wearing something fashionable!" His roommate exclaims, her face brightening and her eyes full of fathomless emotion. Stiles opts to stay silent, watching as the mirth slowly drains from Rachel's features. She watches the woman as she speaks at her little podium for a while longer before excusing herself. She closes her bedroom door, and Stiles has no doubt that she's locked it. 

He stays where he is, watching the woman on the tv and trying to piece together the puzzle that might be her relationship to Rachel. 

He doesn't come up with much. 

As he watches longer, he can find the same sad eyes and a similar, nearly-flawless mask. But otherwise, he cannot find any similarities between Rachel and this mysterious Cassie Sosanya. 

When he goes to check up on her a few hours later, he's surprised to find the door unlocked, the room empty, and the window wide open.


	13. Ambivalence

Rachel is asleep on the sofa, a book resting open beside her, when Stiles comes home.

He pauses for a moment, just staring. He can't remember ever having seen her asleep before. She locks her bedroom door at night (not that he'd ever wander in without permission) and on the occasions that she ends up sharing a bed with him, she's gone before he wakes up. 

Even with her mouth hanging open and her head resting on the back of the sofa at what looks like an exceedingly uncomfortable angle, the sun is hitting her at just the right angle to ignite her hair in a fiery halo and she looks breathtaking. With a smile and a roll of his eyes, Stiles goes to fetch a blanket. As he bends to lay it over her, Rachel's eyes snap open. Before he has time to react, she's rolled off of the cushions and grabbed his arm, twisting it while he yelps in pain. He stares at her, and a shiver rolls down his spine at the lack of any emotion on her face, and the fierceness in her eyes. She stares at him for a second before dropping his arm and stepping away. 

"Sorry."

Stiles shakes his head, rubbing his shoulder with an awkward laugh. "Don't worry about it. I should've known better." 

Rachel doesn't respond. As he watches, the fierce expression is replaced by dawning horror. 

"How long was I asleep?" She demands, voice shrill and eyes wild as she whirls towards the kitchen, where the closest clock is.

"I don't know. I just got home. What's wr-"

She curses and shoves past him, nearly knocking him over in her rush to reach the bathroom. The door slams shut, and after a second the sound of running water fills the apartment, the pipes making a terrible groaning as they always do. Stiles stares at the place Rachel disappeared, mouth hanging open. He's not sure what just happened, but whatever it is is twisting his gut with worry and uncertainty.

It's strange. He's never really questioned her quirks or secrets before, beyond his usual curiosity. He respected her privacy because she respected his, and mostly because he respected her. He's wanted to know everything since the first moment they met in that little bar, but he's resisted the urge to go digging. Now, though, he wonders how much longer he can keep that up. 

There was something in her expression and movements, just then, and he wants to know where they came from.

He sits on the sofa, laptop open but not turned on yet, for an hour. He listens to the pipes as they groan and complain, and to the rushing water from the other side of the wood. It's not until a tiny stream of water begins to leak from beneath the door that he decides enough is enough.

Pushing himself up from the cushions, he bangs on the door before he can pause to think anything more. He waits, holding his breath. 

There is no response.

He tries again, this time pressing his ear to the wood, listening for any sign of life beyond. There is none, and fear is like a knife in his stomach and ice down his spine. He pulls out his cell phone, finger poised over the 911 speed dial he added years ago after a chimera snapped both his arms and Scott was too busy trying to talk it down to offer a hand.  
He swallows around the lump in his throat before trying the knob. To his shock, it turns easily. He inches the door open, wincing at the way it squeals and the moisture that is creeping through his socks. 

"Rachel? You alright in here? I'm coming in, so don't kill me!" 

There's no reply and that's the last straw. He throws the door open so hard it rebounds off the wall and hits him in the face. With a curse he clutches his nose but does not slow his advance. He is ready for almost anything, except to face an empty bathroom. He turns slowly, confused and nervous, trying to find some hiding spot or secret door he hadn't known about before. 

"Rachel?"

He shuts off the water and listens, hoping for a hint. There is nothing. He glances towards the air vent, entertaining brief thoughts of Rachel squeezed in there, but he squashes the thought quickly. Even for supermodel-proportioned-Rachel, the vent is just far too small. 

He tries calling for her once more before giving up. He finds his seat again and pulls his computer into his lap. Licking his lips, Stiles pulls up google and types her name into the search bar.


	14. Blaze

"I think I used to be pretty decent at drawing." Rachel murmurs one day, staring down at the pencil in her hand like it's something new and strange. 

Stiles grunts in acknowledgement, not taking his eyes away from his book about necromancy. It's interesting stuff.

A few days have passed since Rachel's disappearing act, and since Stiles found a eulogy with her name and face attached. They haven't discussed it yet, and as much as Stiles wants to bring it up, he can't quite seem to find the words. So instead, they have fallen back into their usual rituals; curiosity left at the front door and questions left unanswered.

Not for the first time, Stiles thinks that it may drive him crazy. 

Rachel brings the pencil down towards the paper she had been writing a grocery list upon, but does not touch lead to paper again. Instead, she stares down at it, eyes faraway and face expressionless. Stiles glances up, eyeing her over the top of his book, before shrugging and going back to reading. It's a little creepy, those faraway looks she sometimes gets, but it also happens enough that it's stopped phasing him.

Slowly, Rachel begins to sketch in a blank space upon the paper. In shades of grey, two birds of prey begin to take form. When he notices, Stiles shifts forward to watch. He's not totally sure, but he thinks it might be a hawk and an eagle. Below them are the two barely-there figures, a boy and a girl. 

"That's pretty good." Stiles says, and Rachel does not respond. She simply stares at the sketch for a long moment, before crumpling the paper and tossing it towards the pine scented candle they have burning on the coffee table. 

It lands with surprising accuracy, and Stiles yelps as it bursts into flame. 

His roommate just watches, and the sudden elevated flames cast shadows across her features, making her eyes burn gold.


End file.
